


A Chess Game Between Brothers

by PipMer



Series: Chess [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor, Mycroft is a manipulative bastard, Sibling Rivalry, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was beginning to wonder if he had wandered into some weird version of the Twilight Zone. Not that there was actually a version of the Twilight Zone that <i>wasn’t</i> weird, but still, this seemed surreal even for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Chess Game Between Brothers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettybirdy979](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Братская игра в шахматы (A Chess Game Between Brothers)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2953469) by [Sevima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevima/pseuds/Sevima)



> prettybirdy979's prompt at my brand-new tumblr requested: _Mycroft v Sherlock. In anything. John watching in horror maybe?_
> 
> I just jumped on the tumblr bandwagon a few weeks ago. Join me [here](http://pipmer.tumblr.com/) if you'd like, and feel free to leave me prompts.

 

 

 

 

It was a Holmesian standoff.  John was caught in the middle.   And him without his gun.

 

John sighed.  It figured.  It really, really did.  

 

The standoff in question just _happened_ to occur, of course, on the tail-end of a day spent working a twelve-hour shift at the surgery.  An _unplanned_ shift, mind you, due to two doctors calling in sick coinciding with a flurry of flu cases.  Not that anything could really be done for someone once they actually _had_ the flu, but that didn’t stop people from coming in and making unreasonable demands for a cure.  And no matter how many times John patiently explained that, no, there was no cure for the flu, it was just a matter of riding it out, people still insisted on complaining and whinging and just generally making everyone else around them as miserable as they were.

 

Kind of like Sherlock, on a typical day.

 

Only John wasn’t just dealing with Sherlock at the moment.  No, the gods had apparently looked down on him from above and decreed that he had done something so egregious that it warranted what he was facing right now:  two wrathful Holmes brothers standing in the middle of 221B’s sitting room, glaring daggers at each other and both trying to out-shout the other.  John was envisioning spending the next day trying to find a suitable remedy for what would undoubtedly be Sherlock’s sore throat. 

 

“No, Mycroft, absolutely not!  That is absolutely unacceptable.  Stay away from John; he’s mine, and you can’t have him!”

 

John’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

 

“Be reasonable, Sherlock.  It’s only for a day.  And if you’d deign to stop this childish feud and agree to accompany us, you could avoid all this – “

 

“I will _not_ be blackmailed into this, Mycroft, I really will not.  You should be ashamed for even suggesting such a thing.  Besides, John will never agree to such a blatant attempt at manipulation.”

 

“For heaven’s sake, Sherlock, must you be so dramatic?  It’s not _manipulation,_ it’s obligation…”

 

“Same thing.  Especially where Mummy is concerned.”

 

John gaped.  “Excuse me, I’m right here, and… Mummy?”

 

Mycroft sniffed as he turned to acknowledge John’s presence.  “Good evening, Dr Watson.  I would apologise for my sibling’s atrocious behaviour, but you know what he’s like.  I’m sure this is the last thing you wanted to deal with after the tasking day that you have just had, but you seem to be the only one who has any kind of influence over him.  Perhaps he’ll listen to you.”

 

“Don’t hold your breath,” Sherlock snarled.

 

John sighed.  “What’s this about then?” he asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

 

“Christmas dinner.”

 

John blanched.  The tendrils of real fear started coiling themselves around his chest.  “Christmas dinner.  With… your family?”

 

“Of course, John.  Who else would we be spending it with?  Mummy has been wanting to meet you for _ages_ , and since Sherlock would never volunteer to introduce you, she has taken matters into her own hands and invited you to join us this year.”

 

“Oh god,” John stammered. 

 

“See, Mycroft?  I told you he wouldn’t go for it.  Loyal to the end he is, my John.”

 

John was beginning to wonder if he had wandered into some weird version of the Twilight Zone. Not that there was actually a version of the Twilight Zone that _wasn’t_ weird, but still, this seemed surreal even for that.  Had Sherlock just called him _his_ John? 

 

“So, Mycroft, let me get this straight.  Sherlock never attends Christmas Dinner, so in order to manipulate him into showing up, you invite me to come with you, knowing full well that your sibling rivalry will inflame Sherlock’s jealousy to the point that he will agree to come with me rather than risk me being seen as _your_ lackey instead of as _his_ friend.  How am I doing so far?”

 

Sherlock grinned triumphantly. “And that, in a nutshell, is why he works for me and not for you, _brother._ Tell Mummy John declines.”

 

Mycroft nodded in seeming capitulation.  “Very well, Sherlock; have it your way.   Although I wouldn’t have thought that you would want Mummy’s perception of your _friend_ to be a negative one. When she hears of his refusal, she will most likely think him ungracious and rude.  I shouldn’t be surprised; you’ve always been unconcerned about other people’s perceptions.  Well, of you, at least.”

 

Sherlock clenched his jaw.  “Fine.  You win this round, Mycroft.  Just be prepared for next time.” Sherlock turned to his friend, features softening.  “Get some rest, John.  Tomorrow we go to my tailor’s and find you apparel suitable for dinner at my Mother’s.  We’ll need to have you looking your best.”

 

John didn’t look convinced.  “Are you sure, Sherlock?”  He gave Mycroft a warning glance.  “I can come up with a plausible excuse; I could say that I’m scheduled to work the holidays, or that I already have other plans.”

 

Sherlock smiled warmly.  “It’s alright, John.  I actually would love for Mummy to finally meet you.  It’s not _her_ I have issues with, after all,” he added as he glanced pointedly at his brother.

 

Mycroft, to John’s horror, grinned.  “Very good, Sherlock.  I’ll pass on your acceptance of the invitation.  I’ll have a car sent to transport all of us promptly at one on Christmas Day.  Good day, John.”  He inclined his head and took his leave.

 

Mycroft smiled to himself as he closed the door and made his way down the stairs.    Normally those seventeen steps seemed a chore to navigate; tonight his steps felt unusually light as he made his way outside.

 

 

_Check, little brother.  Your move._

 

 


End file.
